


In Frost

by TearoomSaloon



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon)
Genre: Beauty and the Beast AU, Drama & Romance, F/M, fairytale AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-02-28 05:40:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2720783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TearoomSaloon/pseuds/TearoomSaloon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lost in the woods, far into the Unknown, a light beckons her towards a crooked old castle. Its lord is a Beast who knows little aside from poetry and Edelwood; one to light the lantern and one to snuff his soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Lantern light cannot reach  
> Where the hollows go

The AU belongs to [studiokarkats](http://studiokarkats.tumblr.com/)

 

* * *

 

 

These were nothing likes the woods she knew.

The branches above her head knotted like crooked strings, gnarled and old. Chewed away by time, their bark ancient and cracked. The air was humid and stifling through the winter chill. Snow would fall soon and cloud out her path. Then the snow would freeze, and ice would hang from the trees like fearsome teeth.

She’d forgotten her hat at home.

The fog rolling through the forest choked out the path behind her, footprints disappearing as she walked. She turned around once to backtrack only to find they _had_ disappeared. Completely. Swallowed up by a snowfall yet to come. She was lost to the woods.

How had this started?

She was to go to town for firewood. It had been a rough year for her father and they hadn’t had the time or the funds to cut and buy wood. His inventions took all his time, and the small fortune left when her grandfather died was quickly whispering away into nothing. Her brothers weren’t old enough to do axe work, let alone bring down a tree. She wasn’t allowed an axe, and besides, that was too much work for one girl. But she could go out for logs. She insisted she could.

But all she could get was lost.

And it was a hideous thing, a terrible thing. The woods were never this thick, the snow had yet to fall, the trees weren’t needled and stocky. Nothing about the landscape had changed aside from the slightest incline of slope, so she must have been going somewhere, right? That light wasn’t there a moment ago, but it had to mean something, right? Right?

It got no nearer the quicker she strode, and no matter how much time passed, it stayed perpetually on the horizon. She thought it was a trick of her mind until she tripped over a stone at the base of a stair. The dark grey slab spread under thick wrought iron gates. They had been black once, but the paint flaked and broke like fish scales, revealing a rusted color underneath. They stood apart in a gap just wide enough for her to squeeze through. Maybe the owner of this place had directions on how to get back, or a hat. She only needed to get back to the main road—she could make it from there.

“This place” was a castle, high, mighty, and stern. “This place” was dark, lit only by the front room and a window in a tower far to the west. “This place” gave her shivers in her toes, but that may have just been the approaching cold. The bell echoed uselessly when she pulled the cord, calling out like a lone angel’s song. The door, however, opened when she swung the roaring brass lion against the plate, causing her to stumble, balance lost in the widening doorway.

Her voice traveled far in the wide hall, answered only by reverberations. She immediately felt small, like a child, unable to confront a fear that refused to show its face, like a gremlin under the bed or the crooked devil in the hearth. A light flickered from a room down the hall, and she collected herself enough to investigate…only to find nothing. Utterly nothing but an abandoned parlor and a crackling, dying fire. It was warmer here than in the entrance hall, and the furniture looked cozy and soft. The more she stared at the armchair cater-corner to the fireplace, the more she could feel her knees ache. A minute’s rest wouldn’t hurt…

           

“Is she dead?” asked a small voice.

A woman sighed. “No, dear, she’s not dead. Only sleeping.”

"How’d she get in?”

“I led her.” This was a man’s voice, older, stout. “Couldn’t let her freeze to death wandering before a blizzard.”

“What do we do now, papa?”

“She needs to leave.”

“But what if she’s _the one?_ ”

Beatrice opened her eyes to a host of odd household objects on the floor talking about her. She rubbed her eyes, still lost in some strange half of a dream. “Can I help you?"

A wooden soldier with a bushy mustache turned his head. “Maybe.”

She stared widely down and pinched the inside of her arm.

The talking objects didn’t disappear.

“Please don’t scream.”

So she bit her lip— _hard_.

“You need to leave,” said an old stately candelabra. “Before the master realizes you’re here.”

“He won’t have a heart to keep me in from the snow?”

“It would be stretching it to say he had a heart at all.”

“You should hurry, miss.”

Right, hurry and get out of this weird place with the animate objects. Away from this apparently cruel master served by wooden toys and candlesticks. She’d just put her coat back on and try the twisting woods all over again. Her heart was racing quicker than it should have as she pulled on gloves—

“How did you get in here?”

The sound sent splinters of ice through her spine, chilling her stomach until it froze. The figure in the doorway was shrouded in shadow, but she could tell it wasn’t human. Not with antlers like branches and harsh blue eyes. It stepped closer, but remained a dusky silhouette.

Her voice trembled and she hated the sound. “I got lost, I only wanted directions back to the main road—”

“People can’t just _waltz_ in here at random. You’ve trespassed in my home, and I have rights to lay punishment.”

“You _cannot_ do that. My father will come looking—”

“You broke the rules, not me. You pay the price.”

She backed up, closer to the fire. There was a poker in the stand beside the hearth nearly in reach of her left hand. “What are you going to do, kill me?”

“You’ll fetch wood,” the shadow said. Well _that_ was lame. “And you’ll stay in this castle…forever.”

“Forever?”

“Forever!”

“I have a family at home, can’t we negotiate a timeframe here—”

“No. No, forever is forever.”

“Or else?”

“Or else I’ll lock you up.”

“Aren’t I already locked up by this standard?”

“What? No.” It made a disgruntled noise. “No, you’re just here. I can put you in a dungeon or something but I’m going to be… _nice_ , and not do that.”

“If you’re being so nice, do I get to see your face?”

“This is my face.”

“Your face is soot black with no features?”

It sighed and stepped towards her until the embers' glow licked at the base of… _his_ boots. His eyes glowed an unearthly white, but that wasn’t too surprising after all the talking decorative pieces. Three colors ringed his pupil, and his mouth seemed to be full of sharp, feral teeth. The rest of him was still tar black and featureless. “This is as much of my face as you’ll see. Come, I’ll show you to your room, unless you prefer the dungeons.”

That poker was still awfully close. “What’s preventing me from escaping?”

A feather duster sighed. “Oh, you shouldn’t have asked that.”

The shadows in the room swelled until she could see nothing in front of her. Sound had been swallowed up in the void, leaving her with nothing but a crushing silence.

“I doubt you can see in true darkness.”

It receded like the tide and Beatrice was left staring at the strange shadow of a young man. He took no lantern and she blindly followed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not all that is beastly is savage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sound is strangled in the silence  
> Of the snowfall

“You’re going to have to get off the floor at some point.”

Wirt scowled. Though scowling being a facial expression—and him having little on his face to express—it was incredibly ineffective at displaying his mood. To compensate, he grumbled.

“She could be the one.”

He turned to the Woodsman, still frowning. “She probably _is_ the one, and I’ve already botched the whole thing by forcing her to stay here and showing her _Satan’s Parlor Trick_. Did you see her face when I showed her to her room?”

“I did.”

“Like she was going to hang herself or something.”

“Master, you mustn’t be so grave.”

Wirt groaned and rolled over. “I’m already in the grave.”

“What happened when you went to collect her for dinner?”

“She threatened me with a stale baguette and I hissed and then she slammed the door and now I’m here.”

“She’ll have to eat at some point.”

“Fine, that’s fine, just don’t let her come anywhere near here. She’s a snoop, I can sense it.”

 

* * *

 

 Beatrice was a snoop.

A complete, unadulterated snoop.

She waited an hour after the Stranger in Shadow had left before sneaking out of her room. French bread wasn’t the most threatening thing in the world, but it was all that was available, unless she wanted to break off a chair leg (which she thought against, having heavy suspicions that most of the furniture was enchanted people).

The castle was so, so large. She was lost after turning down the first corridor. Somehow, and with an extreme amount of luck, she managed to find the grand staircase that led down to the first floor—no doubt where the kitchens would be located. She may have refused dinner, but she was still famished from the long, winding trek away from civilization.

“Are there any leftovers?” she called upon entering the huge, white kitchen. Compared to the rest of the rooms she stumbled into, this one was suited to serve a lord.

“Sure,” responded a teapot. “The whole of dinner is leftover.”

“Did he not eat?”

“Nope,” said a beautiful golden bell. “He went off to sulk. But we’ve been told to feed you if you came looking.”

The household objects (servants? She was certain they were some sort of house staff) maneuvered her to the formal dining room, bringing out dish after dish of far too much food for one girl. She tried bits of everything, making small conversation and gathering information.

“So, he’s like the overly masculine type that girls aren’t supposed to resist, with the big muscles and the handsome face.”

The bell girl nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“And of course I’m _completely_ uninterested! One-hundred percent not into this guy and he _keeps_ trying to ‘win me over’ and ‘prove he’s the one I love’ and it just makes me so… _nauseated_ , you know?”

“I understand wholly. That sounds so awful.”

Beatrice threw her hands up. “Right!? God, it’s insane.”

“And no matter what you do, you can’t seem to shake them.”

“I feel like I’ll have to get married before he stops hitting on me. Boys can’t take any hints, can they?”

She shook her head, making a small tinkling noise. “I wish I had some advice for you.”

Beatrice growled at her torte. “God damn Jason Funderberker. Thinks he’s _so_ high and mighty.” Another thought in his direction and she pushed she chair out, grumbling. “Here I am in an enchanted castle and I still can’t get away from these thoughts.”

The candelabra paled (wait, _how?_ ). “Who said anything about an enchanted castle, Miss?”

"You all talk and I swear a footrest barked earlier. If you’re not going to show me around, I’ll show myself around.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Only if you find the idea of me wandering unguided a threat.”

They did, apparently.

She was steered in opposing directions, barred from going too close to the westward tower, not allowed near the cellars, and barely allowed to peek at the gardens. It was worse than when she was a child and her mother would cart her around. _You can’t do this Bea; you’ll ruin your dress. Don’t go in the bushes or you’ll trip and scrape your knees. Please don’t mess up your hair; we have guests in an hour._ Night and day, the nagging never ended. She got it; she was unruly and wild as a young girl, and even now as an older girl. Her need of adventure and excitement got the better half of her sensibility even now…especially now, as she snuck off from her guardians.

The West Tower was first on her list of things to figure out, since the scolding she’d gotten for venturing too near was harsher than the others. Carrying her shoes, she made little to no noise on the thick, worn carpets. The floorboards didn’t creak under her weight, but the tall statues shifted their stone heads to watch as she proceeded up cold stairs and darkened corridors.

A great set of curtained doors adorned the top of the tower’s final staircase. The silk hung down limply, colors faded and designs long lost to dust and damage. The doors themselves were dark wood with huge scores across their engraved faces, brass knobs tarnished and dented. Nerves plunged down her back and her stomach tried to fly out of her body. Something was deeply wrong about this room.

A noise at the bottom of the stairs forced her hand on the doorknob and she flung the groaning doors open, dashing into the depths of these unholy chambers.

Skidding down a scratched marble floor, Beatrice made a sharp turn and threw herself into a tiny linen closet, standing awkwardly in an attempt to keep the door shut. A loud crash resonated through the halls accompanied by furiously clicking boots.

“What do you _mean_ you lost her?”

It was the shadow’s voice. Fire bit through his words, covering up an underlying whine.

The wise old candelabra was with him. “She snuck off the one moment our backs were turned. She couldn’t have gone far—”

“She could have gone _ANYWHERE!_ ”

“Not anywhere, master.”

“Then _find_ her! We can’t come this close to fail.” His growl turned into a sigh. “You want this as badly as I do.”

“We do, master.”

“Then _go!_ ”

Metal clanking disappeared as the shadows grew.

She could see a sliver of the room through the keyhole. The beast of a shadow let his shoulders drop, crossing to a small oak table under a stained glass window. Atop its polished surface was a wilting rose covered by a glass bell. As he removed its protection, a petal fell daintily to the floor. He was gentle as he scooped it up, watching as the red corrupted to black.

“I don’t think I can do this, Greg.”

Ah, the worst possible moment to sneeze.

Beatrice tumbled out of the closet in a heap. Quickly righting herself, she tried incredibly hard to ignore the change in the beast’s eyes. She could _see_ the fury building on his missing features.

"Um, sorry. Lovely rose.”

“Get out.”

“Right, I was just on my way—”

“Get _OUT!_ ”

The room whipped into blackness, as though all the light had been sucked from the world. With a force like steel and wind, she was ripped from her feet and cast backwards. She landed off balance on the floor of the entrance hall, heart beating at a dizzying rate.

That’s it.

That’s it, she was _done._ She wasn’t going to stay in a house with something that could do _that_ with a temper like a tiger. Screw this punishment; she was leaving.

"Miss, you _must_ stay,” pleaded a smaller gold candleholder.

"After that display? Absolutely not.” The coat she grabbed wasn’t hers, but the amount of fucks Beatrice was giving right now totaled in the negatives.

“For us, you need to help us.”

“I’m not an enchantress, I don’t do magic, I’m way out of my league. Good goddamn luck with that one.”

With a flash of white, she was out in the blizzard, the roars from the castle silenced by the snow.

A half hour lost and she heard the howls.

 

* * *

 

 

"She could get hurt out there. She’s lost, master.”

“I know.”

“And it’s your fault.”

"I _know_.” Wirt paced quicker in front of the fireplace. Wisps of shadow trailed behind his long cloak. “If she dies out there, it’s my fault.” With a long sigh, he held the mirror to his bright eyes. “Show me Beatrice.”

She was wearing his coat and carried a—wait.

With a glance to the hearth he groaned; she’d stolen the fire poker.

And she looked _terrified_.

“Wolves.”

The Woodsman raised his flames. “What?”

“ _Wolves_. There are _wolves_ out there.”

He didn’t feel the snow as it filled up his boots. He couldn’t feel the wind as it struck hard against his hollow of a self. He couldn’t feel the terror of night, or the adrenaline that surely would have coursed through his system. Beasts knew little of the trials of humanity, and he was losing his faster than he could fuel the lantern.

Soon there was nothing but black.

Soon his fingers had sharpened into claws.

Soon he no longer looked a man in form.

He could feel neither the teeth that surged through his shoulder, nor the hot blood that burbled up through his skin. His ears couldn’t catch the enraged baying or the short, sharp, pained barks. He didn’t see her stay, but he also didn’t see her run.

When the beasts had scattered, he saw the reddened snow, its purity stained like mouths covered in strawberry juice.

He met it happily as his weight crashed down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear god is it hard to write Wirt in character in this au


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Worry is a seed  
> With roots down deep

Incredible cold roused Wirt from a thick sleep. His tongue was cotton in his mouth, awkward and dry. Both of his shoulders ached, and a drumbeat had started pounding in his temples. Had he been fighting again? That was blood in the corners of his lips.

Beatrice had run off and he’d followed. There were wolves. What had happened to her? Oh, god, he needed to get up, but his back _screamed_ , but she could be hurt, but—

He sighed slowly. The girl was slumped down in a moth-eaten chair pulled up close to a steadily dying fire. Her ears were red, and she shivered in her sleep from the chill. She was safe, with only one bandaged palm. He’d rescued her, and she in turn must have helped him, for all he remembered was a scream and white.

She stirred. Her eyes caught the embers’ flicker as she turned to him. “Are you done being a zombie?”

“You stayed.”

Arms over her head, she yawned. “Of course I stayed. I’m the only one here with opposable thumbs. Who else was going to clean you up?”

“You did this?”

“Duh. It was hard to see with all that nothing you’re made of. You still bleed red, though, so I’m sure I got all of the wounds.”

He swallowed, his throat suddenly thick as molasses. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it—I don’t like being nice.”

“Are you going to keep staying, then?”

She rolled her eyes. “Aren’t I cursed to stay here or something?”

“Hypothetically, yes.”

“Then I’m stuck. Just don’t frighten me like that again or I’ll leave.”

“You can’t leave just because I frighten—”

“This _whole_ injury issue could have been avoided if _you_ could control your temper. Don’t forget who made me leave the first time.”

God, she was fiery as the wisps of flames that coiled about her head. If she had any magic in her, she’d be bellowing smoke from her throat.

It made his frozen insides hot.

“Have you eaten recently?”

“No. It’s far past midnight.”

He tried to stand and she was immediately beside him, forcing him back under the covers with a glare. “If you’re hungry, I’ll fetch you something, but you’re not to be walking about, got it?”

“Bread and soup will do.”

“Can I get a _please?_ ”

“Frankly, I don’t think you deserve one.”

With a growl, she turned on her heel and stormed out, smoke and scales trailing her in his mind.

 

* * *

 

Beatrice let out a long, pained sigh on the servant’s staircase, gripping the railing until her knuckles turned white. Her heart was beating fast—with both nerves and anxiety.

The worry had dug its tiny roots into her lungs when she had carried his body through the snow. He weighed no more than a shadow and felt soft like cool ash. The seed sprouted when the blood got under her nails, cherry and rust and umber. A tooth had been lodged in his shoulder. His black claws had been split and fractured.

A tree grew in her stomach, buzzing and shaking its branches while she sat watch, knowing nothing more to help. She felt sicker with each passing hour until the sun rose, when she forced herself to bathe the blood and dirt from her skin, to clean her mistakes from her nail beds. All thoughts of her parents and the outside world were swept away by the stained water.

“He wants broth and bread,” she said to the head of the kitchen—a teapot who had run the tavern down the hill years before.

“How’s the young master doing?” asked the Woodsman.

“Better, I think. I can’t tell since his face never changes. How long has he been like this?”

“Years,” he mused. “Many years. Hard to remember how many have passed some days.”

“He must have had a name before.” She brushed her fringe from her face, trying to hide the puffiness of her eyes.

“The young master was called Wirt by those who knew him well.”

She chuckled. “What kind of a name is _Wirt?_ ”

"I’m afraid I never asked.”

A tray of simple food was presented to her and she took it gently with a small thank you. The staircase was lit with soft candlelight, flames flickering in and out as she progressed. The whole castle seemed to be operating in a smooth silence while its master slept.

He was sitting upright when she returned, fiddling with buttons on his duvet. He didn’t look at her as she entered, which twisted her insides into a tight ball. She was sick to death of worrying about him.

“How many days have I been out?” he asked as she placed the tray on a nightstand.

“What makes you think it’s been more than a few hours?”

“The snow stopped and you’re not wearing your own clothes. It’s been at least one day, hasn’t it?”

She shrugged. “At least.”

"Two days?”

“About that.”

He swore, ripping off a piece of bread. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

“You damn well ought to be.”

“It’s been a long, long time since I’ve had to deal with someone from outside of the castle, and you saw something that I’d rather keep a secret.” She frowned but he continued. “That’s not an excuse—I know—but it’s an explanation.”

She let her eyes wander to the floor. “If I’m going to stay here, you need to trust me, okay? Neither of us can keep secrets. This has got to be a team effort.”

“I’ll try.”

“There’s no try. There’s do or don’t. Half of me can’t stay here while the other half leaves.”

He nodded, staring intently at his hands. “I understand.”

She left as soon as he fell back asleep, her fingers trembling and her toes fast asleep.

 

* * *

 

“What in the world are you doing?”

Wirt looked up from the mess beside the stove. “Attempting to make cocoa.”

“Keyword attempting.” The tavern keeper sighed. “You have to put the chocolate in _with_ the milk, you realize.”

He licked his lips. “I had not.”

“Hopeless, pilgrim. Really hopeless.”

He stepped aside as she began to order the dishes around to salvage his blunder. “I think it’s important that I do this myself.”

“And burn down the whole manor in the process? I’d prefer to have a job and lodgings, thank you.”

“This is so unacceptable.”

“As was your method, so stop grumbling.”

He folded his arms, watching as she did it perfectly. Milk heated on the stove while chopped chocolate was whisked into the pan. He was presented with the silver chocolate pot when the liquid had slightly cooled. Wirt rolled his eyes as dishware followed him into the parlor.

If he hadn’t been a shadow, his face would have dropped.

No Beatrice.

She had literally, _literally_ been here minutes ago with some huge book on her lap. She’d stared at him grumpily, said some nasty combination of words, and shooed him from the room. She was _just here_.

A flicker of red out the window caught his attention.

With an overdramatic sigh, he stomped to the courtyard door, wrenching it open in annoyance. There was a foot of snow on the ground, why did she want to—

A smash of white to his face threw all thoughts from his head. Fuck it was _cold_. What the fuck was so _cold?_ Jesus, was that snow? Had she just lobbed—

Another snowball smacked into his chest, splintering apart on impact.

Bea cackled behind a high wall covered in snow.

“It’s not funny.”

“It’s hilarious.”

“No, it— _Christ,_ would you _QUIT_ that?!”

“Nope.” She was leaning her elbows on the top of the wall, rosy cheeks in gloved hands. “It’s still funny.”

“When you’re done being a jerk, I have something for you inside.”

“I’m done being a jerk when you’re done being a drama queen.”

“I am _not_ a— _FOR THE LOVE OF GOD_.”

“I take it that won't happen soon.”

Wirt threw his hands up and slunk back inside, now cold and covered in snow. Ugh, _women_. She was such a pain sometimes he thought she couldn’t possibly be The One.

But then she’d smile at him, her eyes bright and freckles obscured by her cheeks and he’d forget.  And she’d treat him like an equal instead of some monster or beast and he’d forget. He didn’t let her change his bandages after the first time, afraid his face would light up like a Christmas tree, not wanting to know if he could still blush…though he wanted to make her cheeks match her hair.

No. She didn’t feel that way. Wouldn’t she be nicer if she did?

“What do you want to show me?”

She held her hands behind her back.

“Drop the snowball and we’ll talk about it.”      

With a roll of her eyes, she went to the window, tossing it out into the white gardens. “Happy?”

“Yes. I, um. I made drinking chocolate if you’re interested.”

Bea raised an eyebrow. “All by yourself?”

He ran a nervous hand through his hair. “Well, no, I had some help, but I did make an effort.”

She took the offered cup and followed as he led her from the room. He was hoping that through all her snooping, she hadn’t found his sanctuary. It was deep in the heart of the castle, through so many turns and twisting hallways. He flashed her a grin before opening the double doors.

Beatrice nearly spilled her chocolate.

“You’ve been hiding a house inside your house.”

The library was easily the largest room in the castle, taking up the majority of the manor’s center. Sprawling through four floors, it kept growing like an old willow, its branches and roots burrowing deeper and deeper into the surrounding rooms.

“Do you like it?”

“You underestimate how much I love books.”

He settled down on a couch as she went to explore, figuring it was best to keep from her path of ravenous reading.

Hours later, after he’d lit a fire and taken tea, her voice emerged from the myriad shelves. “Wirt, do you play an instrument?”

She’d used his first name. “Why?”

“There’s sheet music up here, all for piano and double reeds—wait, no, no there’s clarinet music here too.”

"I might play an instrument.”

The rustling stopped and her figure appeared on a balcony. “You _might?_ ”

“I don’t like to play in ear shot of anyone.”

“That’s silly.”

“It’s not silly. I just don’t have the confidence, all right?”

“Will you play for me sometime?”

“And hear your judgmental tone all through the piece? Absolutely not.”

“How will you get better without critique?”

“I won’t, because I haven’t played in years. Now drop the subject.”

“Fine,” she bit, disappearing back into the bookcases.

 

Dinner was quiet and cold.

She looked offended through the whole meal and didn’t stay for dessert, instead opting to retreat to her room with a stack of books.

He was astounded by how royally he managed to fuck up. Knocking on her door later was met with a grunt and a forceful _go away_. When he didn’t leave, a shoe was thrown.

"Maybe you should play for her,” Lorna said, trying to stop him from brooding.

“I haven’t touched an instrument in years. It’ll sound like shit.”

“People who don’t play won’t hear all the mistakes. It’s like how artists see everything wrong with a piece, but the audience is none the wiser.”

“If I’m dissatisfied with my playing, I’ll get frustrated, and if I get frustrated, I’ll stop. I don’t see any winning in this situation.”

“Please take my advice for once, Wirt.”

“It’ll be garbage.”

“She won’t care.”

“I don’t know if I have any reeds.”

“They’re in the music room in the piano bench. No more excuses.”

Tuning was awful. He sounded awful. This reed was awful. His fingerings were awful. This was awful. Why couldn’t he play a string instrument? No, those were no better. Brass? No… _percussion_. You could bang on glockenspiels and never worry about tuning. If only.

With an old concerto in his head, he began to play poorly. His tone improved as he remembered his instrument, once again familiar with its shape and weight in his hands. Something about this felt right.

He wasn’t surprised when he turned to find her in the doorway, an old woolen blanket wrapped around her shoulders and a bell in her hands. Her expression wasn’t warm, but it lacked the anger of earlier.

“You’re not a shit clarinetist.”

“I sort of hoped not, since I’ve played it for years.”

She glanced down at her feet. “It was beautiful.”

His fingers grew unsteady. “Thank you.”

"Would you play for me again sometime? When I’m not falling asleep and you’re more relaxed?”

He stared at her a moment before smiling nervously. “Sure. Of course.”

She returned the smile and walked to him, quickly standing on tiptoes to press a kiss against his hollow cheek. “Good night, Wirt.”

Mouth dry, he felt his blood begin to speed. “Good night, Beatrice.”

With a second smile, she vanished from the room, leaving him in the dim candlelight until his heartbeat slowed. He climbed the tower stairs two at a time.

His stomach quickly plummeted. Inside his bell jar, the rose had begun to weep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man I wrote this at like 2am. Let me know if anything's a little funky or poorly worded.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is short because the next chapter will be far longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fires spark brightest  
> When the audience isn't present

He was gone early in the morning.

 _I don’t want those wolves coming back if you go out wandering again,_ he told her as she stood groggy in her chamber door. His cloak was deep blue and tangible. Wool, something someone had made him years ago, dusted and worn, decorated with golden buttons and thick embroidery and heavy white fur. He ducked out, disappearing down the hall without waiting for a _goodbye_ or a _when will you be back?_

She thought nothing of it and went back to sleep until the sun rose. He was still missing at breakfast, with one of the long swords removed from above the fireplace. The serving staff didn’t say much on the matter of the disappeared master, but Beatrice could feel something off in the air, something dark and foreboding. Like a thick haze, choking light from the winter-filled rooms.

With no Wirt, there was little to do. She could sit and read, or light a fire, or escape, or talk to the staff, but none of it sounded terribly appeasing. If there was no grouchy shadow of a boy to annoy, what was the point of being annoying?

She went off to snoop.

Her heart wasn’t in it, but she had been interrupted the last time, and with no one watching her, there weren’t many better opportunities. Back up to the towers it was.

The hallway to the West Wing was quiet and empty. Dim, with no candles to guide her. The curtains had all been dragged down out of their holders, leaving ghosting trails of white outlines on the ragged red carpet. The air was stale here, foggy and full of dust. Mothballs and old cotton filled her nose as she ascended the tower steps, remembering all too well the incident that had happened a week prior.

His chambers were pitch and drenched her with the scents of smoke and ash. Did he keep a fire burning, or was it residue from another time? It was an unfamiliar wood that burned—acrid and sour, rotting like long-dead flesh. It turned her stomach.

A single light beckoned from the innermost room, where she’d seen the rose before. Its pinkish glow was thinner than the air around, casting lightly around the table. Beside it sat a slowly burning lantern whose light was also a cherry hue. Its flame flickered when she approached.

“You’re new.”

It was a small boy’s voice, resonating from the reddish-brown metal.

Inside the hollow lantern was a face of flames. Small, cheerful, and made of different colored fire. Two big blue eyes watched her from behind the clear glass, a white smile on a yellow face.

“Not too new. You talk as well?”

“Well of course I talk; I’m a person!”

“Not looking like that you aren’t.” She smiled softly, pulling up a worn old chair. “Is there a single, physical person in this old castle?”

"There’s my brother, but he doesn’t look too human anymore.”

“Brother?”

“Oh, I’m Greg. Wirt’s my big brother.”

She studied the flame, frowning. “I'm called Beatrice. I wasn’t aware Wirt had a sibling.”

“It’s hard to explain when I’m all locked up like this. I’m stuck until he breaks the curse.”

“Curse?”

“We haven’t _always_ been objects, you know. I had hair once upon a time.”

“And a face, too, I’ll bet.”

“But the longer it takes, the less like people we become. Wirt used to just be grey, but now he’s a shadow with great big antlers.”

 _What made a normal boy grow antlers?_ “Then what put you in here?”

The fire went quiet, seeming to look away. “A witch came by and hurt us. It’s been a long, long time since it happened, and I’m worried it won’t stop being a long time.”

"How does it stop being a long time?” Oh, he was young, maybe the age of her littlest brothers. Her heart hurt a bit, realizing that he must have been caged in the small prison since the curse was laid. She imagined the twins cooped up like the boy and shuddered. She had to help.

"The spell has to be broken, just like any fairytale. But Wirt has to do it, and we can’t force anything.”

“Can you tell me what it is?”

The fire crackled. “The rule about charms is you can’t tell unless they figure it out. And you haven’t figured it out, so I can’t tell.”

Huh. That was…disheartening. “So no hints?”

“I can give you hints if I don’t tell you they’re hints, but I don’t think Wirt would like you going back and forth in here. Actually, I don’t think he likes that I’m in here. He likes his space.”

“Your big brother’s a bit private, isn’t he?”

“That’s the understatement of the year.”

A door opened downstairs, spooking Bea to her feet. “He caught me in here once, he can’t catch me again. I have to go, Greg, I’m sorry.”

“Wait, one thing before you go.”

She stopped on her heel, one foot out the doorway. “Yes?”

“The rose can’t lose its petals, or we’re all trapped. It’s only got days left, so you have to hurry.”

“Hurry _what?_ ”

“I can’t tell you, just hurry!”

 

* * *

 

 

Wirt passed a skittish Beatrice as he ascended the main stairs. She didn’t say a coherent word to him, but mumbled something under her breath, trying to avoid glancing at him with guilty eyes. All right, this was new. Not good, either, since he needed her to be going in the other direction—the liking him direction, not whatever this was.

“She’s interesting,” Greg said as he closed the door to his room.

“She was _here?_ ”

“Well yeah. Do you think she’d be worth it if she didn’t?”

“Are you onto this too?”

“We’re running out of time, Wirt, if she’s not _the one_ , you’re wasting time.”

“Can you stop being so sage-like when you’re half my age?”

“Left alone to thoughts will do that to a person.”

Wirt sighed and dropped into the chair at the table. Beatrice must have pulled this out; he rarely sat and talked long, always too nervous or guilty to stick around for more than a few minutes. “What do you think of her?”

“She seems nice. Has no clue what she’s doing, but nice.”

“So, you wouldn’t mind…if she…”

“I think she’s a perfectly good girl.”

“Now hopefully I don’t botch this up nice and proper.”

“You’ll be fine.”

 

 _You’ll be fine_ , he told himself, picking out vegetables the next evening. _You’ll be fine_ was his mantra as he fussed over candle placement, over long garlands and wintergreen wreaths. _You’ll be fine_ , he thought, watching her defrost in the entryway, snowflakes melting in her fiery hair. He smiled sheepishly, not that she could see too well.

“What’s this all about?”

“It’s been two weeks, and I haven’t given you a formal welcome.”

“Wasn’t threatening to keep me forever just that?” she teased.

“No, far too informal. Unplanned, one might argue. But I…I want to thank you for not freaking out.”

She took his hand as he led her to the stairs. “I did, though.”

“Not to the point of stabbing me, or calling me a monster—”

“I did threaten you with a baguette.”

"The only scary thing about that is the French.” He stopped, putting himself between her and the double doors. “Just…let me do this, okay?” _I don’t have much time after tonight; let me have this._

“All right.”

“There’s a dress upstairs for you. I’ll meet you in the dining room?”

“A _dress?_ ”

“This is formal, remember?”

She smirked, her hand fluttering from his. “Only for you, Wirt.”

His heart was still hammering as he tried to get tiny golden bells into his shirt cuffs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're familiar with Howl's Moving Castle, there are evident parallels.  
> If you haven't read it, I highly suggest it if you can find the time.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let the caged bird out  
> So he too may sing

Beatrice found herself staring into the mirror for two, three, five minutes before turning away. The dress was cut in an older style, with a blossoming bell skirt and off-the-shoulders neckline. It was all shades of blue, mimicking the highlights and lowlights in her eyes. The bodice was plain, with a line of rose decorations across the front. It was a rather simple, she thought. Not eccentric or loud, just…simple.

She was presented a necklace on a band of velvet, small and large blue stones dangling off the thick black ribbon. Gloves of black complimented the ring round her neck, with dark blue for her toes to match the tulle and bows. The bell girl—Lorna—was in charge of the fire on her head. It was let down her back, a river of poppies flowing down her spine. With careful, practiced effort, accessories and objects piled it low at the base of her head. Braids circled up and down, with a chain of blue flower petals growing across from behind her right ear to her temple.

She was staring so long to make sure it was herself reflected back. She was a plain girl from a plain family, and the finery was subtle but intimidating. Her dress was simple, but her hair was not, and the touch of red on her lips and silver on her eyes seemed to transform her face into someone else’s.

“I can’t leave the room like this.”

Lorna frowned from the vanity. “You look beautiful, though.”

“Which is why I can’t leave. I don’t look like me.”

"You promised him.”

“And I intended to keep it until this moment.” She turned nervously and sat on the bed, inspecting her satin-covered knees. “Won’t he think I look strange? Or different? My mother would have an aneurism.”

“Wirt isn’t your mother.”

“No, he's not, because he'd have an aneurism out of sheer horror. My mother would have one out of _disbelief and joy_. She’s always wanted me to do this sort of thing, but I never…” Beatrice looked up, facing the mirror again. “I never thought I’d fit in with finely-dressed ladies. And I think my reaction proves my suspicions. I don’t think I can do it. Go down there and smile and pretend I’m not uncomfortable, or that my feet don't hurt, or that breathing is easy with so much fabric around the cage of my lungs. I don’t want to upset him.”

“I don’t think you’ll upset him if you’re not smiling the whole time.”

“I’ll for sure upset him if I stay here, though.” She sighed heavily. “I doubt he’s having the same issues. A lord of a castle, he must be so used to formalities and noble dress.”

 

* * *

  

Wirt was not better off.

Wirt was _far_ from better off.

He, too, stood before his reflection, though his problems were inherently and blatantly different. For one, he couldn’t really see what he was wearing. He’d gotten half-dressed and half-ready by the time he realized that he only looked like a slightly more outlined shadow.

“It all turns black when it touches me.”

“Your cloak earlier didn’t,” Greg pointed out from his lamp.

“Outerwear is visible, nothing else is.”

“Have you tried to maybe will it into sight?”

He frowned (not that it was noticeable). “No.”

“Well, then. Give it a go.”

He removed the shirt he was wearing, which turned white the moment it left his hands. Taking a deep breath, he picked the garment up with his eyes closed and imagined it staying its original color. He opened one eye—then two. It was faintly gray for a moment before being soaked up by black, leeching through it like dye.

An irritated grumble escaped his throat and he sat down forcefully, crossing his arms over his chest. “This is pointless.”

“Hey, you kinda got it. Why not try again?”

“Greg, it’s just making me frustrated.”

“C’mon, Wirt. It was going somewhere! Give it another go.”

“How many ‘goes’ do I have to ‘give’ it until you stop pestering me?”

His brother’s voice crackled weakly. “I’m only trying to help.”

 _Great going, Wirt_. He sighed, defeated, and stood. “I’m sorry, Greg. I’m full of nerves and I shouldn’t be taking them out on you.” That’s how this whole ugly thing had come about, anyway. “Do you want me to try again?”

"I do, because I know you can do it.”

Wirt closed his eyes again and concentrated— _hard._

He concentrated on the fabric of the shirt and how the individual strands were pure in their creation, clean ivory woven into a shape. He imagined the cuffs being shaped and stiffened, made specifically for jewels and decorations to adorn their holes. The collar, as it fit around his neck, fastened together with silk ties. If worn with a vest and jacket, he knew the white of the shirt would emphasize the other colors that shaped his silhouette into the form of a young man. Then he concentrated on her.

How the lighter, greener blues she wore would contrast to the darker ones on him. The ember of her hair would be reflected in the orange of his tie and pocket square. Her smile would hide her freckles—

He was in too deep.

Wirt opened his eyes, whipping away from the grasp of his overactive imagination.

“Did it work?”

There was a smile in Greg’s voice. “I dunno, you tell me.”

He was in a white shirt.

“Can you see it too?”

“Of course—‘cause you managed to do it! I told you.”

“Thanks, Greg.”

 

* * *

            

It would be a cliché, she decided, to appear at the bannister all transformed into some blue-clad fairy. To descend in a flutter of music and eyelashes, all the grace in the world magically tucked deep into her bones, inking out as she slowly approached the last stair.

So she tucked up her skirts and marched down quickly when he wasn’t present, shuffling off to the dining room in her too-tall heels and uncomfortable petticoats. He wasn’t there, she realized with a sigh as she gracelessly plunked down in a chair. She wasn’t here for appearances, and she certainly wasn’t here to appear as anything but herself. Maybe he could look past the bows and lace and see her as herself with a bit more finery on. Maybe he thought she was a noble lady from some great house and this wouldn’t bother her in the least.

She really hoped for the former.

In a wonderful, contrasting turn of events, it was she who watched the boy enter, floored and somewhat speechless. There were _colors_ on his person—honest to goodness colors—and they accented perfectly with the black of his form. His hair seemed to be pushed back, exposing the lines of his ears. In a suit of impeccable royal blue, he crossed the table and sat across from her, the cuffs on his shirt tinkling lightly—oh, they were tiny golden bells.

“I hope this isn’t too overdone for you,” he said quietly after clearing his throat.

“Not at all.” She hoped he couldn’t tell it was a boldface lie.

“Oh, good, I’ve been worried this was too elaborate for two people all night. I tried to help in the kitchen, but they shooed me out, so I did up the table and picked out candles and—…oh, thank god, here’s dinner so I can stop rambling.”

Grudgingly, if asked at the right time, Beatrice would admit her etiquette was sloppier than Wirt’s and that she had no idea why there were more than two sets of utensils on the table. Now, however, seated at a too-many-course meal, she made a great attempt to mimic his choice of dish, fork, napkin, and elbow positions. For a beast, he was unmistakably well mannered.

And she had to fight to keep her eyes from his hands, memorizing their every movement across his plate, on the stem of his glass, blending in as one touched a cheek. He rested his chin on them when coffee was brought out and the formality began to decay. She told him stories of her brothers and sisters, struggling to keep her face from glowing beet red. If she looked away, she could forget where she was and picture her nine other siblings. He was too good at listening, she decided, as the only change in his posture was to lean forward, interested in her words.

“What about you?” she asked, shifting the focus off herself. “You have a brother, right?”

“Greg. This is you admitting to snooping around, isn’t it?”

She smiled sheepishly.

“Greg’s my half brother. My mother was remarried when I was younger and I quickly went from an only child to one of two. I’m the reason he’s in that mess, that we’re both in this mess.”

Wirt looked away and the mood shattered down like a glass chandelier, shards spinning and skidding in every direction. He exhaled and the world shrank with his lungs.

“I wasn’t a very good brother,” he said quietly. “I didn’t treat him well enough, and as a result, I got us both cursed. If it had been just me, fine, my fault my consequences. But Greg was trapped worse than me, and the guilt’s hung high since. I…I want him not to hurt anymore.”

She stood and he froze.

“I don’t want pity, or sympathy. I made a mistake and I’m going to fix it. I was never any good to him, and I’m changing that.”

“I’m not going to pity you; you don’t seem like the type who wants that. I’m going to ask you to dance, however, and I’m not going to accept a no.”

“I haven’t danced in ages.”

“You broke the mood, now you’ve got to fix it. Up on your feet, tiger.”

He smiled slightly and stood, taking her hand. “If you insist, I can’t refuse. That would be rude of me.”

“And we don’t accept rudeness in castle ‘You’re stuck here forever’.”

A laugh escaped his mouth, white teeth flashing from behind his coal lips. “That was ages ago, haven’t I proven myself a more gracious host?”

“By forcing me into a dress and exuding nobility with every breath? Absolutely not!”

He was smirking by the time they stood in the middle of the ballroom floor. A chamber ensemble—made purely of instruments and no players—finished tuning and launched neatly and perfectly into a waltz. A hand on her waist, she was whisked into a vaguely Polka-esque melody. _Distinctly Russian_ , she decided as she was spun quickly across the room. Maybe he was charming her, or perhaps her shoes were charmed, for there was no way she was this competent a dancer before today.

Remarkable on his feet, she hadn’t expected such a talent to be hiding in his black silk socks. She was twirled, lifted, and led fluidly from one end of the room to the other, his elegance washing over her, calming her, claiming her. With a hand on his shoulder, they’d never been this close for so long, and her pulse was echoing the immaturity of the experience. He smelled of saffron and rosehips. She thought she might lose her balance.

As the music slowed, he stopped showing off, leading her in a simple waltz. She felt like flower petals in his arms, fluttering softly as her feet glided over the tile. Their feet came to a halt when only the piano remained, its keys creating a soft whisper of a song in the large room.

She was struck silent when she gazed up from his chest, finding no antlers upon his head. Half-lidded light brown eyes and a lazy smirk greeted her on a face that was distinctly human, distinctly a person. _Entirely not a shadow_. His hair was gray-brown, like the bark of an ash tree. She blinked, but his face remained visible, free of the dark shadow. Swallowing drily, she reached up to cup the back of his head.

His lips were soft, like smoke and flowers, though she expected them to cut her, like jagged black obsidian. She could taste the coffee on him, she could taste his fear and inexperience and…happiness, like golden honey and warm biscuits. And he parted his lips for her and she caught the rush of his adrenaline. It flew through her like a freed dove, spiraling until it could find a way out, leaving her breathless and light. Her fingers loosened from his hair as she drew back, finding the canvas of his face had been washed over again, deep and impenetrable as the foggy night sky. She knew, though, that he was grinning stupidly under his beast’s mask.

“What was that for?” He looked at her softly, eyes now blue and yellow and red.

“I saw your face through the darkness.” She let a thumb brush across a cheekbone. “I didn’t know you were quite that handsome.”

He chuckled before realizing the content of her sentence. “You saw my face?”

“You have brown eyes and a dorky smile. Sound familiar?”

Wirt leaned down to kiss her again before pulling away sharply. “ _Dorky?_ ”

Beatrice shrugged. “I’m just telling you what I saw.”

She could have said what she felt, how her blood was hotter than molten iron and that her knees were filled with bees, buzzing loudly in her ears, threatening to give out under her. She could have told him how she thought she needed to shove her face in a bucket of ice to keep it from permanently staying red.

But all she did was laugh.

The night drew soundly to a close, fingers locked together until he said good night to her at the top of the stairs. His lips pressed against her forehead as the doors to the castle were pushed open down the hall. Bea’s head whipped around at the noise, following his gaze to the intrusion of snow and two figures.

Small, red hair, freckles. Oh no…

She wriggled out of her heels before racing down the staircase, confused and alarmed at the presence of the twins. “How on _earth_ did you find me?”

“We asked the good witch in town for a tracking spell and it led us here,” said James importantly.

“Good _god_ , it’s late, does Papa know you’re out here?”

“That’s why we came,” answered Oliver, the shorter of the boys. “Papa’s sick and Mama’s been out of town for a week. We need you to come home, Bea.”

She turned to Wirt, who was now hovering at her elbow. “These are my brothers, James and Oliver. They say my father’s sick. I have nine siblings, Wirt. I…I need to go take care of them.”

“Why are you asking the shadow’s permission?”

“I’m his ward, James. I broke a rule and I’m to stay here to make up for it.”

Wirt sighed. “Wait here.”

He disappeared up the stairs for what seemed like an eternity. Urgency was gripping too hard to her hands, pulling her to leave before he got back. That would be rude, though, and she stood her ground.

He returned sans jacket with a silver object in his hand, which he pressed into her palms. “It’s an enchanted mirror. Speak the name of whomever you wish to see, and it will show them to you.” His voice was heavy with the weight of a century. “I’ll guard your passage out of my wood. Take two horses and don’t look back.”

“Thank you.”

“Be safe.”

 

* * *

 

“And you just _let her go?”_ Greg was nearly crying his metal cage. “Wirt, she’s _right_ , she’s _the one_ , and you _let her go?_ ”

He raised his hands defensively; equal parts disheartened and furious. “I’m mad about it too, okay?”

“Then _why_ did you do it?”

“Because I…” He stared at the rose, its petals dropping like rain. Two remained, and yet even in the direness of the situation, he let their salvation leave. What _fucking_ reason had he for that act of stupidity? What had _possessed_ him to do something so foolish, so caring, so selfless—?

“Because I love her,” he finished quietly, turning his back to the sinking moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The waltz that Bea describes as "distinctly Russian" is the waltz from Khachaturian's Masquerade suite.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Love is not a gentle game,  
> But a battle of courage  
> Between friends

She took the stairs in twos, rushing up to get something—something like shoes, something like proper clothes, something like an excuse—a better excuse to leave—but she came down with messy hair and empty hands. He kissed her palms and wrapped her shoulders in fur and she couldn’t help but notice the pit in her stomach growing, the rocks at the bottom sinking. It would be hours to home, and the journey sounded like Dante’s hell with sinners abound.

Set atop a tall white horse, the time would be cut in half. Set atop a tall white horse, she broke his promise and looked back. Looked back to the castle that had housed her for an unknown number of hours.

And he stood in the middle of the path far behind. He stood with a beast’s stance, bearing great claws and gnashing teeth. He stood like a bear with the head of a lion and the horns of a water buffalo curling above the ears of a wolf.

She tore her eyes away and felt the stones inside get heavier, knowing why he had made her promise not to look. _For who could learn to love a beast?_ Who could love a creature like that, with bristles and fangs and taut, rippling sinew? And she avoided the question, as she avoided applying the word, both of them already plaguing her fevered dreams. She held tighter the reigns and clutched closer the mirror.

It was dark in the woods.

Black below the canopy, like a gruesome setup to a twisted old fairytale. Above the trees, the sky was the pale lavender gray of an approaching snowfall. This was stupid. A stupid, idiotic, rash decision brought upon by her panic. They should have waited the night, waited for the sun to cut through the thick trunks and heavy needles, to ward off the grizzled creatures that lived in the wood.

A snarl unidentifiable as any sort of animal she knew echoed from behind. It was comforting in the same way waking up to the dogs wailing outside was comforting—if something were out there, fiercely loyal beasts stood between you and it. Her fiercely loyal beast was a boy, however, not a dog. Though he was arguably a worse thing to run into deep in the wood, he was no sensible dog. She wondered for a brief second if he knew what he were doing like that, when he was on all fours, or if he were blinded by the blood in his eyes.

“Are we safe?”

Beatrice looked to her brothers riding parallel, one more frightened than the other. She nodded slowly, the gesture a crude attempt at hiding her own discomfort. “We’re safe.”

“But the howl—”

“Was not a wolf, or a bear, or anything else out here.”

James turned his head, giving in to previous stoicism. “Then what _was_ it, and when is it going to _eat_ us?”

“It’s the boy from the castle. He’s not going to _eat_ you.”

“It sounded awfully hungry.”

“We’re _safe_. I’m sorry I was foolish and didn’t wait until sunrise, but no harm will come of us.”

“And no breakfast will come of us?”

“Nothing is going to eat us, James!”

           

They arrived home at the daybreak, clouds of frosted breath catching in the deep violet light of dawn. Beatrice was weary when she entered the house and proceeded to stay weary on the trek to bed. She told them to wake her in a few hours and she’d make porridge and toast and eggs.

As she lay beneath familiar sheets, her world felt foreign. Two of her sisters also slept in this room, but she was alone, utterly alone. The room was not her own. It lacked the ridiculous grandeur and outdated character of the manor, it lacked all the candelabras and dusty curtains and worn rugs. It was rustic here, spare and cozy, but not homey. Under old, worn linens, her bed was not her own. In a moment of weakness, she closed her eyes and entertained the idea of waking up from a dream, still far from home, beside someone who could be—

She rolled over, buried her nose in bedding that smelled like her mother, and forced herself into a restless sleep.

Too many voices woke her in too little hours. Bright-eyed freckle-faced girls sat on the foot of her bed while twins stood on either side, hands twisted in the blankets. Five siblings were unaccounted for.

“It’s barely morning,” she groaned, pulling her pillow over her head, willing the demanding children to vanish from the room.

"It’s after eight.”

“I went to sleep two hours ago, maybe three. Can’t I have a moment’s more rest?”

“But we’re hungry.”

“And you should check on Papa.”

She sat up and a curtain of flames descended over her vision. Pushing it over her forehead, she looked more annoyed than she felt. “Have you not been doing that while I’ve been gone?”

“We have,” Charlotte started, “but he hasn’t seen you for weeks and we all thought you were good as dead.”

 _Thanks for all the faith in me._ “Is he awake?”

“He hasn’t been sleeping too well.”

Shooing siblings left and right, she retrieved a robe from its home on the doorframe and left the cold room for the chilly hallway. Her father looked pale and feverish. The amount of blankets on his shared bed made him seem…small. The idea that her father—the king of her childhood, the man who slung her over his shoulders like a sack of rice, the tall, strong, thick-armed man who towered like a giant—could seem small troubled her. It troubled her into queasiness, as she stood at his bedside unsure of what to do. Lost.

“Hi Papa.” She replaced the wash towel on his forehead, her voice the faint call of birds in winter.

“Is that my eldest girl?”

She nodded, setting down on the floor. “It’s Bea, Papa.”

“Beatrice. We’d thought you’d died out there when the blizzard hit and you didn’t come back. Gotten lost off the path and never found your way home…”

“I was safe, Papa. I should have come home sooner, but I was looked after. I wasn’t in any danger.”

“I’m just glad you’re home.”

Her throat tightened at the lack of anger in his tone. All the guilt she’d been locking up washed out at the pure happiness of her return. She wiped embarrassedly at an eye. “Has the doctor been by? Is there anything I can get you, or do?”

“The doctor’s been by. I’ll recover in a week or two, but I’m on bed rest.” He laughed hoarsely, and then coughed. “But if you could do something about the kids, Bea, I’d really appreciate it.”

She smiled and nodded. “Leave it to me.”

Breakfast was usually a screaming matter. The youngest sibling was five, the second oldest was fourteen. No one liked waiting, no one wanted to get less than anyone else. Bea usually sacrificed for her siblings, but today they were well-behaved little gremlins, offering her some of their fruit or bits of bacon and toast. No hair was pulled, and no voice was raised above the pop and sizzle of pork fat on the stove.

Leaning against the counter, she watched their poor table manners over a cup of tea, noting that little had changed in the time she’d been gone. For a passing moment, she wondered if this is how her mother felt—unconditionally proud of her children though they ate and slurped like animals. Would she have the same sense of love and adoration for her own children?

Would she _have_ children?

She was a long way off from a family of her own, far too young and without a suitor…without a _proper_ suitor. She favored none of the boys in the town, and she doubted the matriarch of the family would approve her marrying a beast.

She sighed audibly, not wishing to think about that right now. Her father and siblings needed her, and until her mother returned, she would stay. Even though a terrible ache caught tightly in her chest. 

* * *

 

Fading, bloodied footsteps wandered deep into the West Wing’s upper chambers. They were clawed and dark, the legs they belonged to nearly invisible. His breath was ragged, vanishing fingers shaking. He’d deal with the mess later.

"You’re letting yourself go,” Greg said quietly from his cage. “If you’re not careful, Wirt, you’re not going to be able to change back.”

With a growl that crackled over the fire, fur receded into skin, paws into feet. Stabilizing himself against the mantle, he drew a breath that changed into a hoarse cough. Blood on the back of his hands, blood under his nails; he was losing himself.

“I’ll be fine.”

“We’ve only a day and a half left, no more. And if…” His brother’s voice grew quiet. “If we’re stuck like this, I don’t want you to…to turn all the way. I’d miss you.”

“I’m doing what I have to. And I’ll keep doing it, if it means you stay safe, and she stays safe.”

“She’s not here anymore.”

He wiped his bloodied lips on the back of a soot-black hand. “Doesn’t mean I’ll stop.”

“What if she doesn’t come back in time?”

“Does it matter now?” He turned, the blackness of his face illuminated by the weak fire. His eyes were pale, antlers smaller and less expansive. He was so tired. “Does it matter if she ever shows up again? She took her opportunity and ran—of course she won’t come back.” He fell into a chair, exhausted. “I never should have kept her here.”

Greg said nothing for a long while, watching the shivering form of his elder brother brood. “I think you’re wrong about her.”

“You’ve met her what—once? How can you judge her?”

“Because I’ve seen you. And I’ve seen her. And I think you’re being a Negative Nancy.”

Wirt stood, shaky and stressed. “I’m going to bed.”

“You’re going to make a mistake.”

He gave a harsh laugh. “I’ve made the mistake, now I’m just going through with it.”

* * *

Beatrice woke with a pounding in her head, recognizing it a few sleepy moments later as the jumping of little feet. Faces greeted her once again, and she groaned loudly before rolling over.

“Bea you have to get up!”

“Bea, Momma’s home! She wants to see you!”

“She was so worried, Bea.”

That got her to sit upright. She carefully tossed her younger siblings from her sheets and hurried out of bed. Stocking feet and ratty nightgown, Beatrice flew down the stairs and skidded into the kitchen. Her mother—tired, overwhelmed, but not unhappy—stood over the table, arranging the bags of food and goods she’d brought home.

“Hi.” Her voice cracked as she held onto the doorway.

“I was worried sick about you,” her mother said sternly, not looking up. “But I figured it was something you’d do. Always the rebellious child, Beatrice.”

“I’m so sorry, Mom, I just—”

“Got lost?”

She smiled, finally, and her mother grinned back. “Yes, actually. I wound up in a castle.”

“Not the worst place to get lost. Castles have princes, don’t they?”

“Well, not…exactly.” She stepped into the kitchen, helping to start breakfast. “At least, I don’t think he’s a prince.”

“So there was a boy. Did he treat you well?”

“That’s a complicated matter. He…tried, I think, the best he could.”

Her mother looked her over, skinning apples with a steely smile. “You seem reluctant to broach the topic. Did he steal away my boisterous daughter?”

She stared into the pot of oatmeal simmering on the stove. “In a way, I guess.”

“Why don’t you say more about it?”

Why? Why couldn’t she explain this? She never kept anything from her mother—not much, anyway—and she really did want to explain. But it was hard, with the boy in question nothing but a shadow and the servants all inanimate objects. Oh, and she’d fallen in love with him. All while her mother was out. _Great_ welcome home present.

“It’s _very_ complicated. The twins found me and brought me home to take care of Papa. I don’t think I’d be able to find my way back again. It’s…okay. It’s fine.”

Without looking, she could tell her mother wasn’t buying it. But she didn’t push. “The girls got to me the moment I stepped through the door. Your father’s going to be fine.”

"That’s what he told me. But I’m supposed to run the house when no one else can, right? So I came back. I was right to come back.”

"I never said your choice was right or wrong, but you’re working awfully hard to convince yourself you haven’t made a mistake.”

She took a shaky breath. “I screwed up.” Her chest grew heavier. “I screwed up and I have a day to get back to—oh, I don’t even _know_ where. Somewhere deep, deep in the woods. Endlessly gone. I’ve _screwed up_.”

Her mother took her crying daughter by the shoulders, forcing her to look into her eyes. “Honey, you’ll get there. I don’t know why there’s a time limit—”

“There’s an enchantment—”

"Then you need to get a move on.”

“But I can’t leave. I can’t leave all of you—I’m not even twenty yet!”

“Not forever, just a little while. I didn’t leave grandma forever when I got married.”

           

She was out the door in less than an hour. Heart pounding, cloak billowing behind, she rode off on one of the horses from the castle, hoping the animal would have some sense on how to get home. If not, she still had the mirror, but something in the back of her mind was warning her against the silver glass. Something was out there right now—something she shouldn’t see head-on.

The woods were cold and snowy. Infinite, almost. Darkness engulfed her in a matter of hours, though the sun still shone somewhere above the heavy, looming canopy. Pine trees shook their thick branches; bark screaming as she whipped past. Her shoulders ached horribly the closer they got. Her face had grown frozen in the harsh breeze, numbing her to the chill, to whatever lay ahead. Her stomach never stopped sinking, and it was making her sick to the core.

Oh, there it was.

Great, black, and bloodied.

A monster stood on its hind legs, blocking her path. Thick dark fur sprouted at the shoulders like a mane. When it turned to face her, she could see its short, powerful snout and curving, turning horns. The sight froze her in place.

Beatrice pulled the reins, stopping the horse twenty feet before the creature. On shivering legs, she dismounted, her approach slow and careful. Blood was matted on its forearms and neck, dark and staining. It snarled louder the closer she got, bristling visibly.

In frost, her heart beat cold.

“Wirt.”

He growled louder at the sound of his name, backing away.

 _I don’t want to hurt you_.

The words rang out in her mind, his voice soft and distant.

“You’re not going to hurt me.” She reached out, touching the tar-black fur of his beast’s face. “And I’m not frightened, either. But I’m worried about you.”

 _You should go home_.

“I was looking for my way back. I don’t know how anyone can lose a castle, but I managed.”

The beast growled low. _That is not your home_.

“It’s getting dark. I won’t make it out of the woods before nightfall.”

He gave an annoyed snort before falling on all fours and heading off in the direction of the castle. He was too tired to argue with her, she assumed, watching his lumbering, fatigued steps. She took the horse’s reins and followed.

It was a short distance, but the strain was evident in the gait the beast took on the steps. He turned to her when the doors opened and hissed. _You cannot stay._

“Why not?”

_I cannot change back. This is what I am, and it’s unsafe for you._

“So—”

 _Beatrice, please_. He looked pained, padding to the fire in the parlor. _This is no place for you_.

Her temper was rising. “Shouldn’t that be for me to decide?”

 _Decide what? It’s_ safe _to stay with a monster? To be away from your family, your friends? To spend hours alone in fear of me, of this? In a castle where your only company is monsters and objects? No one could want this; no sane person could_ love _this, day after day. You’ll grow fearful, or bored, and you’ll leave again, just as you did. You’ll leave, Beatrice, because no one can love monsters, no matter how hard they try._

She stared after him, watching as he slunk further into shadows. His self-pity was suffocating. “Well _I do_. I do, and I’m staying, so help me god. I’m going to stay and look after your _useless ass_ and take care of this place while I’m at it. You made me love you, goddammit, and now you’re going to have to deal with the consequences!”

It was quiet a minute, before a horribly choking noise rumbled through the beast. Cloaked in shadow, she couldn’t see an inch of what happened, but wasn’t about to move—she was hotheaded, sure, but incurring more of his wrath was not her goal.

A pale hand gripped the mantle for support through another coughing fit. When he raised his head, she nearly screamed.

His ghostly pallor receded as the blood rose to his face. Light brown eyes and ash-brown hair. His lips weren’t quirked in amusement like last time, but drawn instead in a tight frown. He looked stern, with his brows knit and his cheeks hollow.

Wirt stared at the backs of his hands. “I’m human.”

She couldn’t contain it. Her fingers were digging through his hair in a matter of moments, dragging him down to meet her in a rough, bruising kiss. A kiss long overdue, lacking all the gentle softness of new love, burning right into passion.

Beatrice pulled away slowly, looking up into dazed, star-struck eyes. “You were always human.”

The revelation didn't come easy on his face, surprise being replaced by a look of incredible horror. "You should have waited to do that."

"What? Why? Aren't you on a tight schedule?"

"Yes! But—"

"I don't see room for a but here."

"How the  _hell_ am I supposed to take care of them when they come back?"

A stone sunk to the bottom of her core when the words hit. He was bloodied—terribly bloodied—and still had ragged breaths. More than one mark was slashed across his face, and his nails were caked in a rusted red. He had stood tall, tired, and  _battle worn_ at the entrance to the castle. He couldn't have known she was coming. He wasn't out there for her.

Her voice was quiet, flat, and cold in fear. "When  _what_ come back?"

"The original ones. The Edelwood beasts."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK.


End file.
